The End of Seasons
by Tharagon
Summary: Sun's Dawn has ended, bringing with it one of the coldest winters ever recorded. Two people hold the fate of Tamriel in their hands; One the Harbinger of the Companions who has now been thrust into a war she wanted no part of and a Red Warden, one of the ancient house Indoril who's hoping to rally the Holds against the greatest threat Skyrim has ever faced. The Red is rising...
1. The Red Wardens

**The Shroud**

* * *

The calls of the eagle echoed through the Dunmeth Pass as it continued its flight along the western edge of the Inner Sea. It wasn't there for the game, its keen eyes not caring for the small prey that flitted below, trying to hide themselves amongst the trees and scrub that made up the Northern Coast.

Feathers caught the early morning light as the sun rose above the gigantic wall of dust and ash which obscured any view of Vvardenfell. They called it the Shroud, those that clung to the tavern tables and told stories of the treasures that lay within. Some foolhardy enough to believe them had left, salivating over the untouched Dwemer stockpiles and lost ruins deep beneath the red storm. They never returned, either falling prey to the Dragons that now roosted along the Sea the Ghosts or the horrors that supposedly stalked the wastes within.

No one knew what had spawned the shroud, only the eruption that had torn Vvardenfell in two and plunged Tamriel into a month of darkness had spawned the cloud. It brought with it hordes of Dunmer, scarcely able to breathe within the clouds great walls. They all shared the same stories, that the dust choked the earth and killed all within. That the great storms that now wracked the place tore up the roads, warping the countryside into an ever changing form. That the winds were so strong that mountains moved, chasms opened up and the red eye of Red Mountain burned the heavens once more.

The white hawk shrieked in a brief flurry of feathers as a lizard, which had once been a small darting shape on the horizon, shot by. The storm was its goal, beady eyes covered with a hard boiled leather foil and net that kept its eyes and nose covered but still let its calls fill the air. For most unlearned, it was the spawn of dragons. For those who actually recognized the odd formation of wings and dorsal fin, the wicked hooked claws on the tips of its wings and the long neck, the cliffracer had once been a regular sight in the foothills of Vvardenfell, its whooping calls echoing through the lonely valleys and open plains.

It called now, as the shroud reached up to snatch it from the sky. The dust itself was ever moving, vast eyes opening up to give the glimpse of far more dust underneath. The maelstrom was such that even the dragons kept clear, keeping to their northern island home. It rose too, in columns of red and grey, reaching up to grasp at the sky but failing to every time.

The racer called once again, flitting between the columns with ease as they boiled upward. It rasped once before tucking in its wings and angled itself downwards, the ridge on its back folding down and sped down into the red. It cut through the dust like a blade, its neck extended, eyes forever on the dust that surrounded it. The rushing wind screamed, tearing at its wings as it descended. But the racer continued, even as the ground came roaring up to meet it.

Twisted trees, once the tall sentinels that dwarfed the swamps of the bitter-coast reached up to scratch desperately at the sky. Beyond that, the cliffracer's darting pattern of flight grew even more haphazard, winds beginning to howl upward from the newly formed holes and trenches that had been punched in the ash. Amongst the tall pointed rocks it flew, over abandoned towns and villages to where fences fell into the dust, their interiors full of bones. Only trama root grew in the fields now the rivers choked with black ichor as water and dust intermingled. It was only beneath the towering pylon of one of the three remaining ghost-gate pillars did it slow before with a screech it rapidly descended once again to a ramshackle selection of tents and ruins, the remains of old towers and long arcing domes which had once made the fortress called Ghostgate. For once, the Foyada in which it sat was quiet as the grave, the collapsed rubble of the fortress providing a near enough unbreakable barrier between them and the great red eye as most had come to call it. The flags still rose in the wind, a red scrib with its legs outstretched embellished on terracotta fabric, but they were scored, their fabric torn and patches missing.

A tower, the only high point was what called the Racer's attention as it rode the currents rising from the valley floor, as those below cooked meals, carried out sword drills in the open squares between tents and buildings or gathered around their campfires. The tower itself was now barrel topped. It had once been a tall slender spire; its roof had caved in forcing the builders to block the hole with guar hide and siltstrider chitin.

It came to rest, clinging bat-like to the exterior wall, keeping the tent between it and the red glow that covered most of the northern horizon. It raised its head as a hatch was pushed open and called in near happiness as gnarled hands scooped it from its resting place and it was gone into the incense smelling interior. The Racer whistled and clicked as the package attached to its leg was removed and its hood untied to let the beady eyes take in the room around it.

The Dunmer that held it was as gnarled as the tall rocks that punctured the wasteland floor. His lined face was etched and sharp with hooked nose, hooded eyes and a neatly cut beard that was full of beads and carved pieces of silver. The usual red of his eyes was gone, just the milky white of blindness that would've been more obvious had his eyes not as been so sunken.

He didn't open the package, just set it down beside his desk. Instead he fed the racer, letting it take the meat from his hand before raising it up to perch on the back of his carved high-backed chair. It crawled on with the hiss of leathery wings, bead head ever up and looking for food as it whistled and chittered.

"The Era?" The old mer asked to the room as a whole.

The cliffracers in their cages looked up as the howl of the winds were shut away with a heavy thump.

"4th. 216st." Captain Arenim said, checking the door was sealed before pulling the heavy curtains closed. That would at least keep the dust out, even though he had come through a near tunnel of drapes and curtains to get here, dust still clung to every fibre of the brown cloak he had strewn across his body. He could still hear the wind, the howl of the ash that scoured the rocks clean and scratched at the walls of Ghostgate, cutting holes and odd shapes into every surface. In here at least, the wind which would usually force most to walk stooped was restricted to the clink of wind chimes hanging from a rafter.

He set his ebony sword and his crossbow down beside the door, the dark material failing to catch the dim light of the three bug shell lights that hung from the walls. He kept his dagger and his short sword however; the wicked black blade attached to his hip and the slim silletto blade at the base of his spine "Why do you constantly ask me that, Elder?"

"We stare into the red for so long, I do wonder if anybody remembers the day, the time or who are they are themselves. Lest we lose ourselves to the dust, I think it's worth keeping abreast of changes," the old dunmer slid an ornate silver box open and took several dried herbs from its interior. With a slight flourish of hand, he slipped the dust into an incense burner and sat back to enjoy the fumes for a minute. "A cliffracer came to me from Mournhold with news of the wider world and I thought you may wish to read its contents."

"I have little interest with anything beyond the Shroud, old man." Arenim said, placing his beaten and blackened faceplate on the desk before taking a seat with a cloud of red dust and the grind of chitinous plates. Remains of a once proud history, the bone and chitin armour of the Ordinator was now damaged, covered in a constant red film of dust. Not that anyone truly remembered that time, when Vivec had glowed in the sunlight, the lands of Vvardenfell teeming with life and the people had lived, worked and prayed under whatever banner they chose. But like the armour, it'd been all scoured away as Red Mountain had burst forth.

In here however it was painfully recognizable. If he hadn't just seen the ruined exterior, it could have been easily mistaken for an ashlanders tent; the amount of cloth hanging from the walls, the cushions on the floor in the far corner surrounding a merrily cracking fire in a bronze bowl. The Grandmaister would probably want this to be the case, to make sure the men and women remembered the land they once lived in.

"Then I have little to interest you then," the old mer replied, taking another herb from the box and worked it between his remaining teeth and chewed happily away to himself before remarking loudly; "So how goes the ward?"

Arenim stared at the message for a minute, almost wistfully, the worn ash grey skin of his face barely moving as his eyes moved from the parchment, to the other mer and back again with barely a sound.

It continued for some-time until the Grandmaester, losing the sharp taste of the Hack-lo leaf said "If you wish to read it, do. Instead of sitting there with a look of pure agony on your face. If I wanted see pain I would merely go downstairs into the rest chambers and watch Warden Manel trying to read."

Arenim gingerly did as he was ordered, snapping the leather strap open to get at the parchment within. The red eyes flashed across the scrib-scrall of text, the mer's lips moving.

"You are not Manel, Captain and do read it aloud. I have not yet focused my talents to deciphering what it says. Dwemer runes were never my strong-suit. I could feel them but I must admit the shapes are little difficult to separate from the metal they're written upon.

"Winter has come to Skyrim," Arenim said after clearing his throat "Scouts report the amassing of Thalmor forces along the Jerall Mountains. With the death of Titus Mede, the Colovian Lords have once more seceded the empire and are in open rebellion against whatever remains of Imperial control. Skyrim exists as the last bastion of any hope the empire has of surviving even though now the land descends into open war. The Jarl of Windhelm fell to an assassin's blade when Sun's Dusk reached an end and what remains of the Stormcloak army flock to many different banners," Arenim let the parchment roll closed and fixed the Grandmaester with a hard stare. "Why does the land of snow interest you so much?"

The Grandmaister sighed heavily and pulled the heavy cloak further around his frame. In their cages, the racers chittered and quieted as the old mer stirred the parchments on his desk, feeling his way across and taking care never to accidently move any too far. Too much, too far and it would take another to return it to its original once more. The Maestar may be still capable without his sight but there was a routine. They marked places that once were, places that had been lost and places where Captain Arenim and the Wardens would never go. The Grandmaester felt his gnarled hands curl around the parchment as he pushed it all to one side to get at the huge map beneath. The map was made up of the remains of guar hide covered with a thick black ink. It was hard to make out in this light; Arenim raised a beetle carapace lantern up onto a hook above the table, letting the blue sickly light fill the small space.

To most, the map would be a scrawl, a mess of black lines, dwemer symbols and odd black spots that seemed to change colour as Arenim looked on, moving from black to green with each movement of the head. The ink had been filled with a thick resin which made it rough beneath the fingers. A blind man's map most called it, but every warden, even those that could see had a copy of this stowed in their packs as they walked.

"You never did tell me; how goes the Ward, Arenim?" the elder said as he inspected the map's surface with his fingers. .

"The ruins of Aldruhn have been quiet, though they say the Bone King is making a push for the Foyada that connects Maar Gan though I have yet to hear anything of that." Arenim pointed to a jumble of spots that covered the south west section of the inner map. "Arvadias seems unable to find corpses to return to undeath and musters his forces in the remains of Khuul. Racers from Maar Gan bring letter after letter that there having been sightings of Scavengers along the Foyada linking our path to Sha-Adnius. The Eastern Rangers," he slid his fingers along the left side of a squiggle of ink along the eastern edge of the map, "report little movement though I have had word that the Valley of the Wind has been exceedingly busy of late."

The elder didn't respond, merely keeping his hands pressed against the table. He seemed to be inspecting the western plains, namely the West Gash Regions "The Northern Rangers…" Arenim said, remembering the note that had arrived earlier that morning. It'd been a close thing, the remains of the racer coming to rest by the northern camp where a guard had slit its throat to end its misery. It'd been torn apart, the remains of its wings mere shreds, the broken bones tearing aside the scales to reveal blood and muscle. "…they say that dragons have begun to roost along Dagon Fel. They seem unable to pass beyond the Shroud and seem quite happy picking off any scavenger tacks that try to make their way to the ruins of Sadrith Mora."

The elder sighed as by his elbow the incense burner ran out of fuel. In the absence of fragrance, the smell of the ash and blood began to burn the back of his nose uncomfortably. Arenim spotted the grimace and with quick meticulous movements, slid several leaves from his own pocket into the burner. It was normal for most of the men that guarded the remains of the Red Mountain to stuff the inside of their masks with scented herbs to ward off the choking dust and stench of sulphur, death and Nine know what else that permeated the land.

"That cliffracer…the one that'd been torn to pieces, where exactly had it flown across? And don't give me that look, boy," he snapped as the dunmer looked faintly shocked "I know you weren't willing to inform me of the animal's plight."

"From Valenvaryon it would've passed through the Red Mountain Crater,"

"The racers along the northern craters edge have been more aggressive of late. It was expected that they would be highly territorial. Weighted down, they would easily see a threat in one of our racers and attack. It matters not, however."

"Maester." Arenim said curtly as the elder sank back into his chair and reached for another sprig of Hackle-Lo. There was something in the Maester's expression which radiated the smallest amount of fear, though Arenim felt the need to say something, the duty he'd sworn to follow stayed his lips "Then if my report is complete, may I return to my Ward?"

"Dralas," the elder said, Arenim pausing, the helmet tucked under one arm. "Where is she?"

"The Ald'ruhn Northern camp...the Racers Nest. They say she went North with the Rangers however."

"She will make Captain one day."

"She will make a fine death if she continues."

"She is eighty years of age. She has had the red with her for sixty of those years." The Grandmaester replied wryly.

Ald'ruhn was a tricky outpost if there ever was one. A Group of tents essentially tucked into a rock formation that only surrounded two sides. Coupled with a creaking, ramshackle contraption made out of wood that hung from one of the old guard towers, which with a small crew watched the Northern roads, ungainly was a possible way to describe the whole affair. It was usually occupied by rangers heading north, cliff racers flying between the camps and outposts and Wardens deemed close but not enough to join the ranks of the Rangers.

Arenim knew he shouldn't ask as the Maester settled back in his chair, enjoying the smell of incense and reaching for the spiced tea by his elbow. It'd now gone cold, but he sipped it anyway.

"Why?" he said far too plainly and loudly for his own good. Redran Dralas was interesting to say the least and that wasn't just because she was female and actually volunteered to be a Red Warden. It was for a range of reasons, namely being overly dangerous without being a complete bastard about it.

There wasn't an answer.


	2. A Stag on Blue

**A Stag on Blue**

* * *

The horses' sides steamed as they dropped down into the woodland shade of Falkreath Hold. Vilkas raised himself up in his stirrups to catch a glimpse of the sun as it peeked over the far mountains and lit every needle with a blinding light that set the forest canopy alight. It would be soon that they went beneath the branches and the sight would be lost to them. So Vilkas enjoyed it, trying his best not to let his brother see his carefree expression. He would've been more worried by the Harbinger's snide remarks had she not been nursing a rather heavy hangover staring into the distance with ringed and dark eyes. The Bosmer hadn't spoken for two hours now, from when they'd broken fast in the shadow of Helgen to their slow descent into the trees. She just slouched in her saddle as they rode, her blue roan doing its best not to tip her from the saddle lest she would snarl several hard words in Bosmeri which made most animals flinch.

He sank back into his saddle as they dropped below the tree line. Farkas didn't seem too bothered by the lightshow, rather more interested in what his large shire was trying to do, namely eat out of every bush they passed. He would roughly yank its head aside every-time it tried, never a happy one in the saddle. It'd been the only horse they could seat him on though, a thick set shire with a glistening black coat and a neck most struggled to rein. It was as patient as death itself which suited Farkas fine. Any previous attempts at galloping usually ended with him being unsaddled; he didn't like being run into battle rather letting his own two feet do the work.

They rode on in silence for some time, the usual noise for the three whenever they rode out. Hralia, they called her. A hawk-like Bosmer who preferred the company of animals than that of people. She was dressed in furs, her hands dripping with talismanic braids and bracelets, fingers covered with rings. Her face was gaunt and drawn, green war-paint covering her face, her eyes dripping with green painted tears. Her hair was wrenched back and full of braids and tufts which sprouted out at all angles. It was kept back by pointed ears with a variety of piercings along their length, with the rest of the mess held together by thick leather bands and metal clasps.

They said the fur she wore had once been the coat of a werewolf she'd hunted down and skinned. Vilkas hoped that wasn't case. Though he'd thrown the Glenmoril witch's head into the flames he couldn't help but feeling a little uncomfortable as the carved wolf's head watched him from her breastplate with empty eyes. He put it down to old habits.

Hralia did her best to keep her food down as her horse plodded on, feeling the remains of last night's ale bounce of the walls of her gut. They called it Rotgut for a reason and though she enjoyed the taste of mint with each sip which she took on a far too regular basis, she forever cursed the vile substance and the effect it had upon her head. Vilkas had commented on it once and if he wanted to remain on his horse and not face down in the dirt he wouldn't mention it again.

She dug her heels in and sent the horse into a fast trot. Falkreath lay to the east but that was the last place Hralia wanted to be. Her path led over the large escarpment to the north, which came down onto the banks of Lake Ilinalta, whose cool waters would suit the mounts better than the streams and burns which cut their way through the Hold.

"Five miles or so to the lake, Harbinger." Vilkas called as the horses hooves moved off the cobbles and onto bare-ground which made up the winding track that rose up over a spine of rock that split the forest in two. She didn't respond, merely clicking her tongue to push the horse on.

By the time they'd reached the top of the steep slope the sun had reached above the mountains and only the sea of green met them. Lake Ilinalta was some distance off, a glistening ribbon of light that cut its way through trees. In the distance Bleak Falls Barrows was cold and dark as ever, clinging to the mountain side like some huge rocky spider. Below that, he could just see the plumes of smoke which rose from Riverwood. Farkas didn't quite see as far, instead watching the tracks edges as they moved. The woods seemed oddly quiet, the large Nord used to seeing deer and rabbits, the canopy full of birds and squirrels. Here however, the wood seemed a little darker, a little more twisted. He mentioned it to his brother but he'd shrugged, uninterested.

Farkas had left it at that. If Vilkas didn't care, he probably shouldn't either. But he still felt the disquiet. There wasn't something in the trees but something had driven the wildlife from the area.

They found out what beyond the next corner. Vilkas had begun to speak as they'd taken a right, making for the gap between the mountains that led to Whiterun but felt his voice catch in his throat. Hralia barely reacted, sinking lower in her saddle as she did.

It was the remains of carts that greeted them, their exteriors shattered, wheels split and loose. Fabrics and food, weapons and tools were scattered across the road, their containers broken open having been tipped from the wagons. There was a lot of blood, horses lying on their sides, bellies split open, their hides peppered with arrows, legs at odd angles. Some were still attached to their carts; others had tried to flee, once attached to the side of wagons as personal mounts. They were dead as others, their guts spread across the dirt.

Hralia nodded her head in greeting to the soldiers that searched through the ruins, her nostrils flaring. The hangover had faded rapidly and all Hralia felt was dull cold burn in her chest as she eyed the white stag's head emblazoned on the blue cloth they had wrapped around their torsos.

"That's the Jarls of Falkreath's men," Vilkas breathed, pushing his horse alongside hers. "What're they doing so close to Riverwood?"

She didn't answer. Before them, where the road widened to sink beneath the trees several of the men were beginning to move into the bare road, blocking their path. Uneasy wasn't the word, Hralia rested hand on the handle of her battleaxe hanging from her saddle as they approached. They seemed to almost swagger, their pockets jingling with what she realized was gold and jewels, belongings from the wrecked caravan. All had their hands on their swords, heads up and watching them approach. Most of the wreckage had been scattered on the road and ditch on the right leaving left of the road clear. Hralia made for that, all the while keeping her brown-gold eyes on the men and their prize.

"What was this?" She called, slowing her horse as the men moved to block her way "Bandits?"

"Nah," one said, half blinded by the sun. "Where're you 'eaded?"

Farkas slid from his saddle with a loud clank. The soldiers flinched, some reaching for swords and maces as the large man knelt and scooped something from the dirt. They didn't move forward though; Farkas was near enough a bear in his armour and would've been a poor target for several poorly armed men.

Under closer inspection of his brother's hands, Vilkas could make out the broken legs of a doll. It was a carved dragon with poseable wings, painted bright green with orange cloth pouring from its mouth. Farkas' face was hard to read as he gently moved the legs of the doll and turned it from side to side.

"We're on the road to Whiterun." Vilkas said, his words guarded. He counted ten more, wandering through the wreckage. All blue tabards and white stags. They seemed to be scavenging, picking apart people's lives and livelihoods. This hadn't been a merchant caravan or a patrol. Seeing the fabrics, the broken bags and tools this was a refugee caravan, the remains of people fleeing the Reach and Falkreath. He could see the bodies now, Nords, Imperials and Bretons lying amongst the wreckage. Some had been cut down where they stood some still sitting in their seats. Others lay in the road, bloody and pale, unseeing. He let his eyes wander, running along the side of the roads and up into the canopy.

Farkas growled a deep rumbling noise in the back of his throat. He too was looking up into the trees where bodies hung. The purple, choked faces of Mer stared back, their feet several metres above the ground. They swung from side to side, eyes unseeing hands loose and empty like macabre ornaments. Some were horribly small. Vilkas counted ten in all.

"Do you like 'em?" The soldier asked, following their gaze. "Some of those damn mer tried to slip through. Tryin' to get to Whiterun I wager. Think I did you a favor stopping them. Don't want them filthy elves clogging up your streets."

"What did they do?" Hralia said in the emptiest voice Vilkas had heard her use.

"Do I need a reason?" he snorted, pleased with himself. He had hangman's hands; his palms calloused where the rope had burned against them, lips stained purple from too much wine and bags beneath his eyes which spoke of little too much ale the night before.

"Did you at least give them a quick death?" Hralia replied curtly.

"Most of them," He said with a smirk "A few of the girls…not so much."

Hralia grunted and dug her heels into the horse's sides, spurring the horse on. She couldn't shake the cold feeling in her chest but maybe she'd feel better once the bodies in the trees were out of her sight.

"Hey!" The soldier called as she passed the sun no longer in his eyes so that he could easily see the pointed ears "Hey, ain't you an elf?"

She turned, just in time to see Farkas slide the doll into one of his pouches, draw his sword and take the head off one of the nearest men.

She kicked the leader as her called out, boot connecting with the bridge of his nose with a gruesome crack. He staggered to one-side, reaching for his sword and failing to hear the whoosh of wind on ebony. Hralia had always like the way ebony sounded as it moved, far more sonorous then steel and twice as sharp. It howled now, its black blade just catching the reflection of his face before it landed a glancing blow on his right shoulder, just where the armor was thickest. Hralia was off her horse with a short sharp curse, pulling the huge battle-axe back to take another strike. Craven when faced with a snarling, tattooed bosmer, the man staggered backwards struggling to keep his feet free from the debris. Hralia wasn't about to let him go however and surged forward, failed to spot a wooden board half buried by dirt and caught her foot. Another man hoping that she'd fallen was up and ready, sword raised as he leapt one of the fallen carts. She split him from groin to neck, bulling his corpse aside as the man she'd originally been fighting scrabbled upright and was gone into the forest.

Vilkas had caught his first with heel of his boot as they came for him, imbedding his shield into the lead's helmeted head. Two teeth came loose and the stream of blood which bubbled from beneath the faceguard spoke of a broken nose. His companion attempted to push past but found the way blocked by another fallen cart. Vilkas didn't waste time and ran him through, wheeling the horse around to keep his shield between him and the men.

Farkas weaved a more bloody path, taking the four that had come for him in one swipe. He was stony faced as he swung, his arms spattered with gore as the blade whistled back and forth. Unlike the great black battle-axe Hralia wielded the skyforge steel blade was badly kept, notched and cracked and on its last legs. He'd cast it away at the end, returning to Jorlund for another. If it broke before, he'd dive in with his fists, breaking necks and snapping legs like twigs.

He took a runner down at the knees before the blade went up in a bloody arc to tear him in two. Another tried, but the man ran him through, twisting the sword vilely before pulling it free. At the other end of the track Hralia snarling, broke another's neck with the haft of her axe, twisting this way and that to try to find new blood to spill. Vilkas kept his distance for now, not wanting to get between Hralia and her quarry. She was hard pressed to find any though; Farkas had the last down on his knees and he left him there as he took his head off his shoulders.

He turned to find Hralia glaring at him before unhooking her bow from her horse and two arrows and was gone into the forest. That stare had the words 'don't move' spread throughout. And Vilkas didn't. No one wanted to hunt with the harbinger when her blood boiled and that same cold and sharp expression cut its way across her face.

The trail was clear enough, the earth torn apart where his feet had drummed a desperate rhythm across the forest floor. The bushes crashed down before him, branches cracked as he smashed through them all the while hoping to get as much ground between him and the Bosmer. A stinging cut from a whip of pine brought reality crashing back and snapped him out of his panic. He needed a plan, he needed to think before she found him. He couldn't just run blindly into the forest, he needed to find a Holdfast maybe get to Helgen. He needed thick walls and strong doors. A crash of wood and vegetation broke his train of thought as a deer came smashing into the thicket, met his fearful eyes and was gone, disappearing over the roots and ferns.

She took him down with the first shot, his knee cap splintering with a scream of agony as he hit the dirt. She took his other knee a moment later, the man scrabbling round in the dirt cried out in agony as the arrow bit. She had him on his back in an instant, meeting the terrified eyes with her own hawkish expression. Hralia wasn't pretty, sharp features with a hooked nose that'd seen its fair share of fistfights. And it was worse now, her lips drawn back in a snarl that twisted her features into a terrifying mask.

"A quick death!" she sneered raising her axe. He cried out, hiding his head in fear. Hralia wasn't letting him have that as she flipped the blade around and instead hit him with the haft. "You gave them nothing! _Nothing_! Just a sick nord prick who thinks he has the world in his hands! Did they squeal when you killed them! I'm going to make you feel every…" she smacked him hard again "…last…moment!"

He screamed _No! _as she hit him again, bones cracking. His arms caved first as the heavy axe hit him again and again. Ribs caved, skin tore and bone broke the man beginning to cough blood. His chest was nearly torn in two by the time the axe was raised for the final time.

Hralia took his head with the 'whoom'. There was a barely a word from her as the blood began to soak into the dark woodland soil. She paused, letting the sound of her pounding heart fill her ears before imbedding the axe-head in the forest floor. The soil would do better than any water she'd ever find, the body would soon be food for a wolf pack or bear.

A branch cracked behind her head. She turned, finding Vilkas barely concealing his disgust for the ruined corpse at her feet, the blood dripping from hands and the gore spread across her face. She bared her teeth, the great brown-gold eyes full of fire.

"Leave your words." She said, the slight Nordic accent twisting the words and making her speech thick.

"We should go," Vilkas turned his eyes away from the body "Dengier of Stuhn is a paranoid man as it is and he'll have more than one party out searching."

"We bury the bodies first." Hralia rasped raising her axe onto her shoulders and stalking past him. Vilkas followed her out, wise enough not say anything. Farkas had already started to take them down when they approached, moving the bodies like a stack of potatoes. The smaller bundles he took a little more care with which warranted an odd look from Hralia as he gingerly laid them out in neat rows and reached for the shovel they'd originally been using to dig themselves out of snowdrifts along the Haemir Pass.

The winds were cold of late. Hralia had never felt the wind so cold within the great pine forests of Falkreath Hold even though she knew summer was at an end. It'd been a long and warm summer, the air growing humid and thick as great thunderstorms gathered along the plains before breaking and showering the streets of Whiterun with rain. She'd heard that other Holds had good harvests, even the iron hard soil in Windhelm relenting to allow many to finally plant their crops. The markets had been bustling and since the return of the dragons was curbed the great markets were busy with life, the streets full and the coin pouches groaning.

But like all knew, a warm summer was usually followed by the coldest of winters. She felt it now, the wind whistling by the braids in her hair to stir the furs on their horses' saddles.


	3. Unmarked, Forgotten

**Bodies in the Ash.**

* * *

It was the North Western Wastes that dug into the soles of her boots as Redran Dralas raised herself up onto the fencing that had once ringed Guar pens and cast her eyes across the wreckage. The Wardens moved among the remains of houses and caravans, their red and brown cloaks caught in the stiff breeze which blew in from Skyrim. She could taste the cold on the wind even behind the thick armor face plate, the scent of lands beyond the sea.

She wasn't the tallest of mer. She wasn't stocky either, though the armor she wore made her a mass of armor plates, rags and the familiar dark red cloak of the Wardens. Behind the faceplate, her face was crisscrossed with several scars that split the dark purple lips, the red eyebrows and neatly intersected her nose. She was long featured, skin taking on a far deeper grey-green hue than most. Her face was gaunt and drawn, her lips drawn into a hard line that rarely inched themselves up into a smile.

It'd been two days long walk from Racers' nest, cutting a path through once fertile areas that were now choked by ash. They called it the Petrified Forest now, no longer the West Gash. It was the wounded racer from a downed caravan that had called them to this place, not really one where the Wardens would ever tread. Things stirred in Berandus and for most, it was an area to avoid. But life still found a way up here, even if the storms meant that at all times there was never a view of the sky. Gnisis still existed though its people forced underground to live out their lives in the tunnels far below the village. Now a veritable city, it had become a much needed outpost for the Wardens.

"What did they hope to find in a place like this?" Her long time friend Othelas muttered as he leant against the fence she stood upon, surveying the area with a look of regret that ill-suited his face. "These people were farmers, not miners or soldiers."

"They say the Dunmer can live anywhere, just as the Guar do… though we probably complain about it a great deal more. For most it would've been cowardly to leave, we can be rather stubborn." She replied hoarsely, not taking her eyes off the land before her.

"But we're not stupid," Othelas said, stuffing several bittergreen leaves into his armor in an attempt to shield him from the smell of preserved flesh and blood that permeated the ash and the wind that cut through them "We couldn't have stayed."

"We stayed." Redran replied clanking down and retrieving her spear. It was twice her height, a well carved shaft of dark, heavy wood with a slender ebony point. From her robes, a sword, dagger and crossbow swung back and forth, tied in place by thick leather belts and worn metal buckles. There was no such thing as being over-prepared. However light you traveled, foolish though that was you would always sink into the ash. Whatever came out of the ash, be it Alit, Kagouti, enraged Guar…or worse it was always worth carrying that extra blade, bolt or mace.

"Is there anyone left?" A warden cried over the mess, his voice harsh and cutting, unused to being raised. For warriors, the Wardens themselves were far more used to skulking round the base of rocks or appear as dull shadows along the tops of dunes watching the scavengers come and go. Not that anyone really saw them; to most the Wardens had been forgotten.

A quick glance across the chaos showed that the insides of the caravans had all been torn out, gutted and open to the elements while their rich fabrics and tapestries were slowly being swallowed by the ash. Redran let her fingers touch the wooden sides, feeling the flow of the wood beneath her gauntlets.

"Where are the bodies?" She called to the tall shape of Captain Sandas. Like the other elves he was tall, bearded, his hair shot full of steely grey lines though beneath the helmet that made little difference.

"Probably lost to that foul necromancer," Sandas rasped, too long in the ash to have any of his original voice left. "He's always looking for newly dead to raise and return to unlife. I would not take this too seriously. The man is bereft of his mind."

"There's magic scarring here!" Another called, the long loping shape of Laranel and his longbow silhouetted against a still glowing wall. It still smoked, even now as the last pieces of a caravan driver's shadow was been etched into the wood.

"The bastard would freeze and burn. Shock would risk loss of the flesh." Redran called, making sure Sandas wasn't watching and stooped to root through several rich colored fabrics, pulling a bright red one from the mess and instead settling for the ebony and silver filigreed sheet that sparkled beneath the dust.

"A warden does not want." Othelas intoned patting her with his sheathed sword as he passed.

"A warden is going to get the butt of my spear." Redran growled, shoving the fabric into the inside of breastplate.

"A Warden does not take possessions of the dead."

"A warden does not slip away to the whores in the ruins of Suran when his duties take him nearby." Othelas grimaced at the words as Redran drove her finger hard into his chest. "Try that again and I'll leave you to the racers."

"What do you do with them anyway?" Othelas rumbled as they rejoined the other two. They were beginning to make their way up the opposite dune, following the single set of footprints that led away from the scene. Larenel, ever the ranger had ash pouring between his fingers as he took several handfuls, feeling the rough fragments against his bare skin in the hope he'd gain some extra knowledge. Othelas took one longing look back at the caravans before continuing "You can't exactly knit them into your cloaks…" he didn't get a response as Redran adjusted her tower-shield. It was an unwieldy piece of chitin and dwemer metal that dwarfed her body and made the crossbow she carried even more difficult to carry. And it made a handy sled in some of their more difficult descents.

"Shouldn't we stay?" He called after Sandas as the taller Dunmer paused to look back over the slowly disappearing wreckage.

"We stay, the Nix will be here to clear up."

"And?"

"I don't like hound flesh." Sandas rasped back, turning his back on the youth and disappeared into the dust.

"You talk when you're worried, Othelas." Redran said as they half slid, half walked down the other-side. "Remember that night in Kogurhun."

"I talked for t…" Othelas replied begrudgingly

"Your lips would not stop flapping."

Othelas grinned though his eyes were still hard. He'd been a stable-boy once, as the Argonians swept North and Hlaalu burned. He'd taken up the cloak of red when they'd dragged his parents out into the streets and cut their throats. They couldn't penetrate the shroud though and as a boy ran, the red and wind took him deeper into Morrowind.

The shroud was his home now though, a vast red cloud that covered every inch of Vardenfell. From the Ascadian Isles in the south, the bitter-coast in the West, The Sea of Ghosts to the North and Zarirbel Bay to the East. It was vast, ever changing. He hadn't seen the sky since then or the sun either.

The Nix hounds had begun to return as the Wardens disappeared into the red. But even with the promise of food within the caravans walls, the dead guar still waiting to be picked clean, they kept their distance.

The thing that kept them back was tall, horribly tall. Its slender arms were overlong, body far too thin and skeletal to truly hold it upright. Its blank, featureless face moved from side to side as it walked through the mess, its skin a pure obsidian which cut through the dust as if it was barely there, a mere nuisance where most wardens would struggle and be bent double.

It'd watched them come and watched them go. It wasn't sure what think or do as the wardens passed, unseeing and unaware that it even stood there. But it watched the slowly disappearing tracks with interest, unmoving. Just a tall slender shadow in the storm and the ash.

It was an hour before its legs stirred into life, following the path the wardens had taken leaving the caravan and its dead to the jaws of the hounds.


	4. Crossed Keys

**Crossed Keys**

* * *

"Smells like snow." Vilkas commented, having a nose for these things. "I can think of a few people who'd be cursing the sky right now, demanding that Kyne give them a few more days of warm so that they can get their crops in." He shrugged wryly, turning to watch the road to Falkreath "It'll be here before this evening"

"It smells like war." Hralia said, taking a far darker route. "How long will it be until Dengier of Sthun sends his bastard son to deliver the family sword to Balgruuf? How long then until the great Ram of Markarth delivers his own weapon to Solitude? They're all losing any unity they ever had." She roughly pushed the ebony bow back into its holder and tightened the straps. "This winter will be a dark one, mark my words."

Vilkas grunted in response, his love of ice and snowy plains receding a little, knowing all too well that she was right. He'd seen the carrier birds flying from Holdfast to Holdfast, the increased amount of couriers on the road. Falkreath was their primary problem. As of yet, the great cemetery town had been quiet, rather uninterested in the world around it. As of late however, Dengier the newly reinstated Jarl had been getting far more fidgety. He was already a loyal supporter of the Stormcloaks, already being a strong force left by Ulfric after winning the town back from the Empire during the Dragonborn's peace treaty. Now soldiers thronged the roads, guarding or scouting the woods for anyone that had looked at them funny. New Holdfasts had been raised, Falkreath's strength in timber coming into its own as summer came to an end.

At this news, Hralia had sent riders to the four corners of Skyrim to scout out the Holds. The sudden changes in the political structure of Skyrim had led to many great Holdfasts being built; large forts of wood and stone that guarded the roads or sat like hawks on high points to better gain a view of the amassing forces. Though Skyrim came close to desolate, its holds were vast and its people many.

Maps now hung from the walls of Jorrvaskr marking holds, the holdfasts, the occupied forts and the roads. Hralia would spend hours poring over books, reading through books of troop maneuvers, learning the history of the greatest battles and quickest skirmishes. Vilkas feared, which was an odd sensation he wasn't used to, that the Companions were facing a far greater change then he would have liked.

Watching her now, the Bosmer's eyes continued to burn. Behind them, her brain clicked and whirred. She'd been a boon as Harbinger so far and their coffers had never been so full. More important jobs, more escorts, more recruits, more great hunts for jewels and artifacts. The Underforge essentially sparkled with the amount of gear they'd dragged back, either on their backs or on the back of horses. Hralia was smart, cool and calculating and she knew what was coming.

He wouldn't have been surprised if she hadn't seen this coming years ago.

They rode again as the sun reached its height. They galloped now til their horses shied and reared, covered in sweat in the shadow of the guardian stones. They stopped then, giving the horses peace and water. They drank readily from the river as a lone Hunter looked on from her camp in the shadow of a large outcrop of rock. The air here was clearer. The winds from the tundra spoke of cold and biting air as the winter came calling. They'd seen increasing numbers of giants with heavy woolen cloaks…and fewer mammoths for that matter. And the mammoths that were still alive and weren't fur coats were bulking up with extra fur.

Torvar had once jested about taking a few pot shots at the passing animals so that they would have great spits of roasting mammoth throughout Jorrvaskr. Hralia had put a stop to that however; firstly any who disturbed the mammoth usually flew among the moon and stars should the giants get wind of what was going on. Secondly the flesh of a mammoth was thick and tough, difficult to divide and the spits that would hold it would have to be able to support its weight.

"We need to warn Riverwood. Dengier of Stuhn this close to the Whiterun border would be of trouble to the guards there." Vilkas spoke up, breaking the hour long silence that had followed. The others seemed slightly shaken by the bodies in the trees. They'd seen death, by the nine, they'd usually been the ones that had been dishing it out. Here however these were innocent people. None of the companions were cruel, even Aela in her moments would never inflict that much cruelty on any people that went against her, even the bandits that tried to split her head from her shoulders.

"Agreed," Hralia replied, her head angled upwards to better enjoy the warm sun on her face. It didn't seem to shake the cold that weighed heavy on her chest. "Gulder will want to know."

"Gulder Ironhand knows far too much." Vilkas said, remembering the fat Nord's beady eyes the last time they'd stopped to water their horses in Riverwood, back when the roads were open.

"I trust him far more than most," she replied "Just not as far as I can throw him."

"That won't be far." Farkas snorted.

They reached Riverwood at a far slower pace, clattering up the main street with barely a word. Hralia had her face set as she took a right by the Riverwood trader and up the main street. In the shadow of the great stone crags, the guard barracks was a steaming mess of wooden planks and straw. Reminders of Whiterun rang in every timber from the carved door to the carvings on the roof ends. However the builders had carved them into a bird's heads with long sharp beaks not dissimilar to the birds that flew from tree to tree.

The head of the guard was Gulder Ironhand, a huge nord with a gigantic red moustache that covered the majority of his face. It was a thing of great pride, being the only hair on his head and he kept it well. It was also the cleanest part of his face too, his jowls covered with fat from the meal he was heartly tucking into. Hralia could remember him constantly applying wax in the vain attempt to keep the moustache's shape. The Nords were known for their beards which usually were knotted and twisted and full of food and spilt ale. The moustache itself was a strange sight to see on such a large man but during his travels Gulders had admired the drooping facial hair of some of the higher lords of high rock. He'd tried to replicate it but with the Whiterun Guard armour straining to keep his gut in, it was an odd look to admire.

He raised his hand in greeting as the Hralia pulled her horse to a standstill with a great cry of 'Hail Companions.'

"Greetings Gulder, I hope you're well." Hralia called over the thunder of logs and the white hot hiss of sparks that was been produced as Alvor put swords through the grindstones one at a time as his teenage daughter looked on. Several guards were milling round the forge, enjoying the warmth that rose from it in the increasing cool breeze

"Harbinger!" The boards heaved as Gulder rose, wrapping the short elf in a great embrace that threatened to drive the air from her lungs. "My Bosmer maiden! The Sleeping Giant is empty without you. They're no fun, they can't hold their ale. They're weaklings and yet the maidens drink more than them. I can see why. "

It'd been her words to get him instated, leaving behind the walls of Whiterun for the colder climes of Riverwood. And for that he'd been eternally grateful, this place had been his home since the beginning, the great walls had been his as a boy and it'd been the greatest moment to return to this place in his guard's armor. To most, he was in an easy position. To Gulder, it was as if he was repaying a favor.

'And how you are' Hralia thought as the man dropped her and gestured for them to join him at his lunch. Vilkas grinned widely as he reined his horse but decided to stay away from the veritable feast Gulder had spread before him, wordlessly going off to find Alvor. Farkas clanked off without a greeting or a word. Hralia could guess what he was going to do however. Find a chopping block and an axe and take his anger out on a few pieces of wood. She could imagine what he'd been seeing in his mind's eye before each swing…

"So how does the great Harbinger find her great role, hah?" Gulder said after a while, watching the bosmer tearing apart several chicken legs. "Fetching the mead still?"

Hralia bit into a roasted onion as she mulled over what her answer could be. Trust was a hard thing to come by and only some should know so much. So she gently moved aside the plate by her elbow aiming to give herself more time and have Gulder clamouring for her to speed up and caught a glimpse of a map of Skyrim pinned to the table beneath. It was covered in a mess of notes and pointers. Hralia met the beady sparkling eyes beneath the folds of fat and flesh. He'd been watching her hands, the movement of her eyes across the map and he met her gaze now with a knowing smile.

"Dengier of Stuhn has patrols out on the roads of Falkreath hold."

"I know, this isn't news. The old bastard hasn't liked Whiterun being so close." He laughed taking several of the pickled onions in one hand and forcing them into his mouth. He bit down hard and produced a shower of phlegm and spittle before the beef and gravy was pulled across. He was enormously fat, his orange and bronze raiment groaning as it strained to hold him in. How he still held his position wasn't acquired through the strength however. What Gulder had was something far more powerful; guile and cunning that set his eyes twinkling. Hralia had always been careful when dealing with the fat nord, his piggy little fingers were still stuck in a range of pies and he could have a whole load of trouble waiting for you if you made a wrong move.

However Gulder had his heart in the right place, even for his cunning and Riverwood and Whiterun always came first in his estimation. Food and ale came next followed by whores and then Hralia and the companions who had always been a steadfast supporter of his captaincy. Hralia just hoped she wasn't on the same levels as the whores however…

"They're hunting elves along the trails. We found a refugee train making their way north...or what was left of it," She said bitterly watching the smile slip from his face like water from a rock "Ten men in all, they'd killed everyone and hung the bodies from the trees…"

"As a warning," Gulder growled. "Ulfric could sing a pretty tale but he had little stomach for cruelty and destruction that comes with war. He was a soldier first but Ulfric knew people. Galmar I fear is far more dangerous and prone to this kind of attack. He means to destroy any that stood against him. There will be no deposed jarls. And the people…let them die with their false kings."

"Dengier has been split from the others since Blackbriar went over to the Empire. How can he hope to raise a force? "

"There have been birds from the Windhelm clans. Great white falcons with letters and barbed words. They return every few days," He gurgled after taking a quaff of mead "They do not go to Dengier, they go to the Captains of the Stormcloak horde that still remain with the Falkreath walls."

"And why haven't you stopped them!" Hralia snapped, forgetting her place.

Gulder's eyes warned her to quiet down.

"I cannot kill every bird that flies lest the eagles of this valley do not return and our skies are full of pests." Gulder rasped after a time, seeming to lose his appetite. "And our streets full of them as well. We are isolated which is a boon and a fault should some come looking for why their birds no longer call. A bolt did for Ulfric but we would be under attack, should any wrong doing be revealed." He was right, though Hralia wished that it wasn't true.

Beyond the large porch they sat upon, Hralia could see the village, the streets full of loggers and their wives moving around their daily lives. They moved in the shadow of windmills and great waterwheels that powered the mills. In his shed, Alvor was deep in some lively conversation with Vilkas as he admired the skyforge steel sword. Farkas was behind the inn, his axe moving with a steady rhythm as he broke apart log after log. One of the local girls was watching him work but all Farkas did was grimace and turn his head away every time she tried to disturb him. Obviously the bodies in the trees were playing heavily on his mind.

"When they come, the snows will come with them." Gulder said ominously as he rose to his feet and pushed the dishes aside to reveal the map "Skyrim will have its reckoning, even if it's a far more twisted thing than Ulfric ever hoped for."


	5. The Red Scrib

_Ok, this stuff is pretty dark. This is my first dabble into Skyrim fanficion; I'm still learning and any pointers on how to improve would be great. Each chapter is be episodic and would be from several different view points. For all those who remember Morrowind, i mention things that you find familiar. For those who haven't, don't worry, the rest of the story takes place in Skyrim without needing to know the ins and outs of Morrowind. _

_Anyway, enjoy. _

* * *

**The Red Scrib**

* * *

The great howling winds had warped the ancient imperial fort which had once guarded the eastern road and sent odd shapes tumbling across the old stone walls. It was a now a rounded, twisted formation of stone and wood which rose from the ash like a great curled and rotting finger. Beyond, the remains of Gnisis moaned in the constant tumult, the remains of the old stones that had once been markets and temples were split open to the sky. Only a few people wandered that bleak place, the majority were wardens coming into rest with their spears held high and their cloaks billowing.

The Wardens were beneath the walls as the first Guardsman began to call out. The towers were rough cut tee-pees which covered the walls with large flags and prayer ropes that caught the wind winds and filled the air with the sound of wind-chimes and flapping fabric. The guards were shadows, Redran had to squint to catch sight of them amongst the colourful flags that stretched from their tops to the ground far below. She felt the warm ebb of comfort beginning to fill her form as they crested the final dune and slid down to the wide, covered entrance of Gnisis Mine.

Gnisis was far more than met the eye. Once mainly mining, the village had miles and miles of tunnels built into the rock beneath the ruins. Dug by the Kwarma, the tunnels had been long and broad and seemingly endless. The bugs were still there too, living in the deeper tunnels where the air was thick and hot. It went down deep into the earth, where tunnels opened into far larger caverns then those near the surface. This was where the bulk of Gnisis' population lived; in great rope slings which held their tents aloft and large walkways allowed them to move between them. This was so the rushing water which poured through the floor would never touch the lives of those above. It was one of the last springs, the only other being Suran to the east and the Ghostgate to the south.

Only guards walked the surface, their spears and bonemould armour covered with dust and rags that made them appear pale phantoms amongst the red. Some were brighter in colour their robes reds, green and yellows; remains of the banners torn down from the temples.

"What life it is to live here still," Redran muttered to Othelas as they stepped into the warm heady air of the tunnels after been ushered through several mat curtains to enter the village proper. "Their whole lives underground, no light but that of torches."

"You haven't seen sun in eighty years." Othelas pointed out with a grin as they clanked past the grim looking doorman. Sandas had gruffly greeted the guard as he pulled the great metal door open. Dwemer in origin, it'd been bought just before the mine had been turned into a village. Remains of an attempt to keep the Blight away back when the Nerevarine was walking the wilds; Redran had enjoyed the feel of the metal beneath her fingers as she passed. The Dwemer weren't unfamiliar to any of the Wardens and Redran had enjoyed many a long stay within the metal walls with its noisome machines and cool atmosphere.

"The Dwemer had great rooms filled with trees and machines that kept them alive. Huge cogs drove the water and watered the plants letting flowers rise from the dirt where no light went." They passed into the first great cavern after a long descent into the earth. It was even warmer down here, as the smoke from the furnaces began to gather in the air around them and Redran felt her throat begin to close as she breathed in. At least most that lived down here were by the springs where the air was cool as the water came rushing in. Here however, the smell was so thick and cloying that most outsiders would feel faint. "We could either move people to those ruins…perhaps we could find a way to replicate that here."

"Perhaps you can get your head out of the clouds again," Othelas retorted "Why don't you focus on then and now rather than trying to bring the Dwemer back?"

"Just think what we could do if the Dwemer were still here." She kept going, her expression wistful.

Othelas shook his head as they descended. Redran had Dwemer on the brain, losing herself in the many ruins they'd ever explored. They called it Ruin Madness, Redran's over-enthusiasm which led her to sprint madly into the clockwork hell that exited within the metal walls and dance amongst machinery as animoculi attempted to take a chunk out of her. That had led to a few scrapes they'd had to fight their way out of but one Warden was worth twenty five men and they'd remained unscathed

The great tunnel was dropping even more steeply here and the air was slowly getting cooler, though the closeness wasn't. Dunmer were out wandering the tunnels. Most raised their eyes to watch them pass though some kept their eyes down. Redran smiled at those that met her gaze, her mask up on the top of her head where a shawl kept her bright red hair out of view.

"Come on, Lady Dralas," Sandas rasped sarcastically someway ahead "Don't mix yourself with the common folk"

The look he got in return would've turned most to stone but Redran kept her mouth shut. Sandas was twice her age, a modest hundred and sixty years and wasn't one to argue with. She instead satisfied herself by digging her knee into Othelas's back and sent him sprawling.

"Whoops." She said, forcing his head down into the dirt with her spear butt as he made to rise. "Didn't you know that the floor slopes away quite steeply there?"

"I hate you." Othelas groaned as they moved by him, Laranel grinning wryly as they entered the final chamber. The housing was built like a vast tree house; a huge trunk of wood boards that rose from the centre was built on a large block of rock that kept it out of the water. From that central trunk, large ropes kept the large tent houses aloft. They were built like large pyramids with pointed roofs and wooden beams that kept the cloth apart. And they were alight with life, dunmer children running from tent to tent followed by their mothers while teenagers fenced and fought on high wide platforms that hung from the ceiling. Elders smoked their pipes in the shade of huge wooden awnings beneath waterfalls where the spring came in through the walls while women splashed through the cool clean water either washing clothes or bathing.

Hotpot was a way of putting it, a mixture of the Native Dunmer, remains of splintered Ashlander tribes, Camma Tong who'd stuck to their holes when Red Mountain burned and Imperial Soldiers who hadn't been recalled or had deserted. Most were at odds with each other; Camma Tong attempting to assert themselves but never truly able to return to their life of crime under the watchful eyes of the Wardens. Imperials trying to return some semblance of Empire control to the village…which usually failed as they were met by the steely gaze of the Wardens and the mess of thugs and thieves of the Camma Tong. The others were just there to survive as ever in the holes, whatever power there was, everyone wanted it. For most the Wardens were the only Arbiters, who would stake you out in the dust until you suffocated.

The Warden's Outpost lay at the far end, through the mushroom gardens that clogged the walls with their sickly light and smell. It wasn't as grand as the caves more a selection of holes and tunnels dug out of the rock by the Wardens themselves. Here the rocks were porous and strong, never a chance of a cave in. It wasn't a slight on the townpeople's part more the fact that the Wardens were the best fighters they had and should something come bursting through the entrance…though Redran seriously doubted that…they would need someone capable of holding the threat back as the others fled to the lower tunnels.

Gnisis' Outpost was a long corridor with four rooms leading off from it at regular intervals. It'd been carved from the rock by the Wardens, trying to keep some distance from the people in the main rooms. Drunk men wanting a piece of a warden…namely the female ones. Children wanting to chat, play with the armour and the weapons and the last thing the Grandmaester wanted was them to appear soft as the children ran around wearing pieces of the Warden's robes.

Sandas spoke in his usual disgruntled tones as they pushed the curtain of the first hole aside and found one rather sleepy Warden attempting to rise from her bed, to raise her hand in greeting to her higher rank. The space was tiny, just two single beds dug into the walls so that the Wardens would have to slide themselves into bed, and a fire pit in the middle. It wasn't bare, previous Wardens had spread carpets on the floor and wind chimes hung from the ceiling. But the space was cramped and dark and Redran had to half stoop as she dumped her pack on the nearest bed. There were three other holes like this, all the same apart from one which held a desk and several racers in cages. That was the meeting room, where cushions were spread across the floor, surrounding a fire-pit much like the one in this room.

Sandas shook his head as the female reached for her robe, signaling her to return to bed. She had pulled the covers back over her head and gone back to sleep in an instant, probably quite unwilling to do anything else.

The others moved off, dumping their packs into their own rooms with great groans and sighs which usually followed a long patrol. Othelas' dirt filled face came through her door a moment later as he caught. He glanced around the space looking vaguely disgruntled.

"Why do you always get the nicest room?"

"This is the female quarters." Redran gestured to the sleeping ranger whose long slim grey leg was poking out from beneath the sheet. Othelas watched it too, hungrily for that matter. "How's this better than any of the other holes we're staying in?"

"Because it's for women and that's what makes it better," Her helmet rebounded on the wall behind his head and he was gone, calling in his usual sardonic voice. "I'll be back!"

"Dressed I hope."

There was another cough from the door and Redran came face to face with Captain Sandas. He was grim, as usual and his red eyes brushed over the unpacked pack on her bed and the un-helmeted head. Redran hadn't yet bothered to remove the shawl and instead stood there, fully armored and smelling rather strongly of creshweed.

"No Matze or Gambling." He rasped.

"No Matze or Gambling." Redran repeated, deadpan.

"We're out tomorrow at first light." That was figurative of course.

"We're out tomorrow at first light. What time is it now?"

"Not-Light."

"By your will, Captain."

Sandas grunted and disappeared back to his quarters where his report and his last bottle of flin waited unfinished.

He'd seen the ash come and go, back when the largest storms wracked the Vvardenfell shoreline and the dust had been so thick that they'd had weeks of darkness. He'd probably had his fair share of death too, the great Dunmer warrior had enough grey in his hair to make him an ancient yet he still walked and wandered with no complaint. No one knew the ache he felt in his bones or the weight he felt in his chest as he clambered up and down the dunes or fended off animal attacks. It wouldn't be long till he'd be taking up the robes of a Maester or otherwise, rising up the ranks of an Order that no longer truly existed.

And he would hate it. The old dunmer twisted his usually grim face into a wry smile as he resumed his work. He was one of the ash. For the Wardens death was in battle, no one lived long enough to take the Maester's robes. Most became captains, perhaps a Partriarch before a scavengers bolt, a kagouti's tusk or an alit's poison barb ended their lives. Age was somewhat of a curse here beneath the cloud.

He turned to his reports, the usual complaints from the villages; several imperial Soldiers had attempted a coup and were forcefully put down by the wardens. He'd seen the red flags on the teepees, the red a warning of death fluttering high over the town as a reminder to travelers that the wardens were present and a reminder of the measures they'd take to kill those against them. Apart from that, food shortages, poisoned water supplies, one case of murder and a theft. Pretty usual really, Sandas, rested his hand on the pommel of his ebony sword with a groan as he reached for his pen and went back to work.

Redran gently undid the pack, a large cylindrical mass of guar skin and cloth and pulled her book free. The armor came away with a clank, being neatly laid on top of her pack. Then came the cloth, the shawl first revealing her red hair. It caught the light, a great mass of braids and beads which made her hair glitter and click each time she moved her head. It was short, just low enough to cover the nape of her neck and neatly cut to follow the line of her shoulders. She pulled the rest aside roughly; removing layers of dusty fabric, newt-scale mail and leather straps until at last, bare skin showed. Under all of it, a featureless shift was the only thing she had for clothes. It went down to just below the knee and revealed little, just the curve of her breasts beneath the fabric and her slim build showing a few curves as she moved. Like her legs her arms were bare, save for several odd twisting tattoos along the forearm.

To some it was a curse, a great burden that only the noble or the mad took up. Redran had taken her first Watch as a youth of twenty, having come Vvardenfell to return to the ash, much like her Grandmother before her. She'd stayed, decided that life here was as good as any and stepped into the ash. Outside the shroud, the nations would rise and fall but within it, time stood still.

Vvardenfell was home, it called out to her as she walked the foyadas and the plains. The great shroud had been like a painting a picture, forever stuck in time, nothing ever changing. The ash preserved everything and wore away anything that was not part of Vvardenfell.

She slid herself into her bunk, rearranging the sheets to cocoon her form and took a book from her bag. It was dog-eared and dusty, a thick volume with a cover made up of leather and bits of metal. Tales of the Dwemer by Marobel Sul was written in large black letters across its front, a book Redran knew well. She could remember how many times she'd read through its pages over the years, a constant companion on many a long patrol. Now she rested, later she'd bathe in one of the more private pools where none of the males could see her.

It was several pages in; just as her muscles began to relax she realized her helmet was still out in the corridor.

With a groan, she pried herself from her cocoon and staggered across the floor, her legs complaining. Outside the curtain, the corridor was dark with no fire-pit to light it but Redran's nighteye was far stronger than most, having stared long and hard into the dust filled nights. The helmet was where she left it, its shining metal casing dented and damaged with several reinforcing plates attached to the forehead to keep the entire thing from splitting in two.

It could have been sleep, the shift black patterns across the walls could be her eyes fogged. But Wardens weren't supposed to dream and walk, only the ash madness was supposed to claim those who wandered too long. She told herself that as her mother's shade stepped from the black.

"I'm so sorry, Red. It doesn't look I'll be coming to the ash," She whispered, her red tresses tumbling down over her shoulders. They were streaked with grey, just as Redran remembered it when her mother had visited before. She was wearing her old imperial armour, its plates rusted and dented. She had her helmet under one arm, its exterior carved with Velothi symbols, remnants of her past in the Ashlander Camps even if the plates were mainly imperial design rather than the traditional Indoril. "Events have taken a turn for the worse."

"Mother." Redran felt herself go cold. Only the dead came in dreams, not some stupid telepathic theory.

"Killed twenty five of them before they hit me a poisoned arrow…cowards. They took my head but I must admit, it wasn't that bad." Thelan Dralas sighed, her shade swirling past Redran to pour over the fire, seemingly enjoying the heat. "High Rock is burning. The Thalmor have set the sky on fire from Hammerfell to Skyrim."

She was gone an instant later, her smile lighting her features as the dust shifted and gone leaving wisps caught in the heat of the fire.

"There are Guar coming. More Wardens," voices began to echo in the corridors as Othelas emerged from his chamber. Disappointment flared for a second across his face as he quickly hid the matze and cards he'd been holding before roughly dragging Redran to her feet. The headsman was there guiding several thickset wardens in, their cloaks covered with dust and red ash. They had their helmets still on and they had little interest in taking a seat as they rounded the corner even as Sandas snapped his heels together and bowed to them as they approached. Redran recognized the robes of Patriarch; Captain Arenim had his crossbow out and slung over his shoulder. She made to rise as he came toward her, his mask sliding back as they walked.

"You ride from Ghostgate, Arenim," Sandas said, still half armoured, his journal under one arm and a racer on the other. He'd been making ready to leave, to send his racer home as they'd rode in, their Guar out of breath. "Why have you come here? I expected the Grandmaestar to send you east to scavenge what you can from Uvirith's Grave."

"The Maestar requires the Wardens are to return to their strongholds and await further instruction." Whatever reason the Maestar had given, it was clear to see Arenim didn't agree, his face set "You're to stay in Gnisis until bid otherwise."

"Why would we bunker down? We've no report of any attacks from any of the old Strongholds and the scavengers can't break through with the dragons guarding the shroud to the North," Sandas replied pointedly "There would be little reason to freeze the patrols."

"Dralas." Arenim ignored the protest, knowing all too well that there was no way the Maestar was ever going to change his mind. "You are to return with me. The Grandmaestar wishes to see you."

"Why?" She felt her curiosity surge as the Warden fixed her with a glare for been far too impertinent. There was no arguing with the Maestar's will, he was a stubborn as any dunmer though his mind one step ahead of everybody else. He'd only spoken to him twice, just as she took the ash and again during one of her wanderings. He'd been led out as she'd passed, him taking her face in her hands, fingers feeling every bump and scar. He'd barely made a noise as he felt her scars, where her lips were pulled down by scar tissue, her nose a near ruin. And then he'd walked away, his aides moving around him.

Othelas had remarked that it was odd and teased her about it for weeks following.

"The Maestar's reasons are his own," Arenim replied after a time, seemingly picking his answers carefully. Redran inspected his face carefully, trying to read every line. "But if you wish, then I bring news."

"Go on," Redran remembered the shade's smile, the movement of her hair and the armour she'd spent hours polishing and repairing. She knew it, even as he said it.

"Your mother has died."

Redran felt the feeling ebb away. Just a numbness that remained. She'd expected pain, sudden blinding agony in every fibre. She was tougher than that though and she hadn't seen her mother in years, just a letter and a package every month. She'd never forgotten, Redran was always there in her thoughts. That was the path she'd chosen, same for Thelan and her mother had respected that. And had never forgotten.

"We go to the Ghostgate," she murmured "And if the Maestar wishes to waste my time, I will return to the ash and my brothers and you will not see me again."

* * *

"Don't be gone long." Othelas had said, thrusting a small bundle into her hand as she mounted up, his expression guarded as Sandas looked on from the dark of the tunnel entrance. She taken it with a quiet goodbye, sliding the object into her breastplate for later as Arenim called out and the Guar moved off. She watched Othelas, the lone dunmer a single shadow in the ash as he slowly disappeared from view, just another figure amongst the guards and the ruins. Loss dug into her chest as he and Gnisis finally was lost on the horizon. She bit her lip, willing for the ache to go away as the guar called to one another and sped up.

The thing watched them go, tall upon one of the Watchtowers as the Guar's called and charged off into the dust. All around it, the guards lay dead, their eyes empty of life save the black tears that stained their dust masks and burned into their flesh. Within the orb of its head, the lights moved and sparked as its neck moved, keeping track of the riders until they were lost in the dust.

It howled then, or at least its skin began to vibrate creating a low tone echoing over the dunes as the ash thrummed and reacted to its presence. As the storm increased more came, their thin arms reaching out to grasp at the air as they walked, eerily slim shadows in the red and the grey.


End file.
